"Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lee Sharon, Miller Steve)

Duty Bound 

Pilot of Korval

MASTER PILOT VEN’DUCCI sighed and folded his hands on the practice board. By these signs, Er Thom knew himself to be in desperate straits.

“I had heard from captain yos’Galan,” the master said quietly, “that you had achieved a level of skill equal to that of a second class pilot. Perhaps I misunderstood?”

Er Thom inclined his head respectfully. “In fact, sir, I have achieved my second class license.”

The Master’s eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. “Have you, indeed? Show it, of your kindness.”

Now he was in for it in truth. A short series of keystrokes from the board at which they sat, and Master ven’Ducci could transform the treasured second class license into a mere third class—or into no license at all. such was the power of a master pilot.

Still, it would reflect poorly on his melant’i—and on the melant’i of the Captain his mother—if he were seen to either flinch or hesitate in the face of this order. Er Thom neither flinched nor hesitated, but pulled the card from its slot in the practice board and held it out to his instructor in fingers that were, amazingly, steady.

Master ven’Ducci received the license gravely and subjected it to a leisurely, frowning study, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Er Thom folded his hands forcibly in his lap and set his tongue between his teeth, lest he be tempted to blurt out any of the defenses of his own skill that were rising in his throat.

Halflings defended before they were attacked, and he, Er Thom yos’Galan, was not a halfling. He was a pilot of Korval. Specifically, he was a second class pilot of Korval, the license fairly earned on the same day that Daav his foster-brother, boon comrade and fiercest competitor, received his provisional second class.

Master ven’Ducci finished his inspection and laid the license on the edge of the board.

“How came you by this?” Er Thom took a careful breath, and met the man’s eyes with what he hoped was grave calm.

“I came by it at Solcintra Pilot’s Hall, on Banim-Seconday in the first relumma of the current year.” He had more than one cause to remember the day well, though very nearly a full standard Year had passed. Er Thom licked his lips, hands stringently folded upon his knee.

“Testing that day established me as a second class pilot. Master Hopanik signed the license herself."

‘“Testing that day’,” Master ven’Ducci repeated. “Yes, I see.”

Er Thom felt his face heat, his fingers tightening convulsively. He would be calm, he told himself sternly. He would.

Master ven’Ducci picked up Er Thom’s license and held it in his palm as if weighing it for merit.

“It is sometimes the case,” he said, in the mode of instructor to student, “that the exhilaration of the test itself will call forth heightened response from a candidate. The results of such testings are not invalid so much as misleading. It may well be, young sir, that your proper rating at this time is second class provisional. It is certainly true that your results at these boards, over the time we have been working together, falls significantly short of the results one is accustomed to receive from solid second class pilots.”

Er Thom bit his tongue, refusing to beg. If he was a failure, if he lost his license this moment and spent the rest of his life balancing cargo holds, he was yet the son of Chi yos’Phelium—of Petrella yos’Galan. He would not shame his Line.

“So.” Master ven’Ducci glanced at the license and slid it into the pocket of his vest. Er Thom’s stomach twisted, but he sat still, and, gods willing, showed no distress.

“I will consider the proper course to chart from this circumstance,” the master pilot said. “Attend me here tomorrow at the usual hour.”

“Yes, Master.” Somehow, Er Thom managed to stand, to make his bow and walk, calmly, from the inner bridge.

He was scheduled for dinner this hour, and his mother the Captain had made it plain during his first few days’ service that she rated moody, self-indulgent boys who skipped meals just slightly lower than Port panhandlers too lazy to apply themselves to a job.

Er Thom swallowed and deliberately turned his back on the hall that would eventually lead him to the cafeteria. He could not possibly eat. He swallowed again, blinking back tears.

His license. He has a second class pilot! The tests had not been in error! if only—

If only he could speak to Daav! If only his foster mother, Daav’s true-mother and twin sister to Er Thom’s mother the captain—if only Chi yos’Phelium were here. But, of course, she wasn’t. He had neither seen nor spoken with her since the day he had won the license.

He had always known that his true-mother would one day claim him to serve on Dutiful Passage and learn his life-roles of captain and trader, just as he had always known that Daav would someday leave home to attend scout Academy. He had simply been caught… unprepared… when “one day” became “this day,” and he was suddenly swept into his mother’s orbit, away from everything that was usual and comforting; his one cold joy the new license in his pocket, which proved him a pilot of Korval.

It was no inconsiderable thing to be a pilot of Korval. Indeed, he had learned that it was no small thing to be cabin boy on the clan’s flagship, true-son and heir of Captain and master Trader Yos’Galan. The child of generations of space-goers, Er Thom had adjusted easily to his duties and to ship-life. He had adjusted less easily to the absence of his foster-brother, who had been within his arm’s reach for the sum of both their lives. Er Thom’s earliest memory was of gazing into his brother’s face, watching the black eyes watch him in return.

“Good shift to you, young sir."

Er Thom gasped, jolted out of his misery by the quiet greeting, and hastily bowed—junior to senior—to Mechanic First class Bor Gen pin’Ethil.

“Sir, good shift.”

The mechanic considered him out of wide gray eyes. “One remarks that it is the dinner hour,” he said delicately.

Er Thom gritted his teeth and bowed again. “One also marks the hour,” he said, politely. “However, there is—a book—in one’s quarters…”

“Ah, but of course.” A smile showed briefly. “A cabin boy must always be at study, eh?”

“Just so,” Er Thom said and bowed a third time as the other passed by.

Legs none too steady, Er Thom went on, and very shortly thereafter laid his palm against the plate set into the door of his cabin.

He felt the scan crackle across his skin, then the door slid open. He all but jumped through, the lights coming up to show a stark little cubicle made smaller by the built-in folding desk, which was extended to its fullest, and overladen with books, readers, and clipboards. The slender bed was tucked under the lockers in which the rest of his clothing and possessions were stowed, the bed itself occupied by a long, thin figure dressed in a dark long sleeved shirt, vest and leggings of black space leather, booted feet crossed at the ankle, hands crossed over his belt.

Er Thom stared, not quite daring to believe the rather solid evidence before him.

“Daav?” he breathed.

The black eyes opened, the dark head moved on the pillow, and the familiar, beloved smile infused the sharp-featured face with beauty.

“Hullo, denubia,” he said, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. “What’s amiss?”

Er Thom stared, the skin of his palm still tickling with the after-effect of the scan.

“How,” he demanded, rather faintly, “did you get here?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to that[“Daav told him. “I can show you the trick, if you like.” He tipped his dark head, mischief glinting. “Own that you’re glad to see me, beast, or I shall be inconsolable.”

“Yes, very likely,” Er Thom retorted reflexively, then laughed and threw his arms wide. “In truth, I was just wishing for you extremely,”

“Well, there’s a proper welcome!” Daav rose and flung himself into the embrace with a will. For a moment, they clung, cheek to cheek, arms each about the other. Er Thom stepped back first.

“But, truly, Daav, how did you get here?”

“To the Passage you mean?” He moved his shoulders. “I cast myself at the feet of an elder scout, who was bound for this quadrant.” Mischief glinted again. “Surely you don’t think I walked?”

“But, the Academy…” Er Thom gasped, suddenly struck with a thought almost too horrible to contemplate. “You haven’t—they never rusticated, you?"

“Rusticated me?” Daav looked properly outraged, which of course proved nothing. “Certainly they did not rusticate me! Of all the notions! I suppose you’ve never heard of term break?

“Term…” Er Thom blinked, counting the relumma backward, and sighed. “I never thought of it,” he confessed. “But, surely, our mother…”

“Save her leave, saving only that I find my own way out and back and that I arrive early to my first class at break-end.” Suddenly, Daav stretched, and put a hand on his lean middle. “What’s the nearest hour for a meal, brother? I’m not halfway hungry.”

Well, and that was no surprise. Er Thom sighed and tried to look stern.

“As it happens, I’m scheduled for dinner this hour. Perhaps I can convince the cook to give you a few dry crackers and a glass of water.”

“A feast!” Daav proclaimed gaily, and slid his arm through Er Thom’s, turning them both toward the door. “Come, let us test your powers of persuasion!”

“TOOK YOUR LICENSE?” Daav stared, soup spoon halfway to his mouth. It was his second plate of soup. The first had vanished with an alacrity unusual even by Daav’s standards, and Er Thom suspected that the elder Scout had not been over-generous with rations. “Pray, what profit comes of taking your license?”

Er Thom moved his shoulders and looked down at his plate. He had made some inroads into his own meal—at least he would not be called to book for neglecting his duty to stay healthy.

“Master ven’Ducci feels my proper rating is provisional second,” he told his plate. “One… understands… him to believe that the—the strain of carrying a full second class is… interfering… with one’s studies.”

“Rot,” Daav said comprehensively. “Does he think you’re to finish at second class? We’re both for master, darling—unless you believe our mother will allow us anything less?”

“No, of course not,” Er Thom replied. Chi yos’Phelium had never held shy of telling her sons exactly what she expected them to accomplish on behalf of clan and kin, and neither Er Thom nor Daav could conceive of failing her.

Daav had another sip of soup. “Do you fly live?”

“Live?” Er Thom blinked. “I fly the dummy board on the inner bridge.”

“A second class pilot, practicing at a dummy board?” Daav demanded. “What nonsense!”

“Oh, I suppose you practice live!” Er Thom retorted, stung.

“Of course I do,” his brother answered, with a surprising lack of heat. “It’s required.”

“In fact,” he said after swallowing the last bit of soup, “I sat second board to the elder scout on the trip out. I don’t doubt but I’ll make the same trade with another pilot for the ride back.” He lifted his eyebrows, from which Er Thom deduced that he had allowed his astonishment to show.

“Surely you can’t think that the ever-amiable Lieutenant tel’Iquin would lift extra mass where there was no profit to herself?"

“As I have not had the pleasure of the Lieutenant’s acquaintance—” Er Thom began, and broke off as a shadow fell across the table between them.

“So,” said Captain Petrella yos’Galan, and there was a hard shine in her blue eyes that Er Thom had learned meant the entire opposite of his foster-mother’s twinkle. “Nephew, well I had a beam from your mother my sister, desiring me to expect you. When did you think you would come and register your presence with the Captain?” She inclined her head, in mock courtesy. “Or perhaps you believe the ship will feed you for free?”

“Aunt Petrella, my mother sends her love,” Daav said with a calm Er Thom envied. “I regret that the desire to see my brother caused me to delay making my bow to the Captain.” He smiled one of his sudden, transforming smiles. “And I surely never expected the ship to guest me. I am able and willing to work my passage.”

“You relieve me,” Er Thom’s mother said punctiliously. “And your passage is—?”

“I have ten Standard Days for the ship,” Daav said. “At Venture I will barter for a lift back to Liad.”

“And your mother agrees to this.” She raised a hand. “No, do not speak. I have her beam. My sister assures me that she reposes faith in both your abilities and in your oath to be early to the first class of the new term. The matter is outside my authority. Within my authority, however…” She frowned down at them both.

“Er Thom is not at liberty. He has his studies and his assigned duties, which do not disappear because you have chosen to appear.”

Daav inclined his head. “Nor am I at liberty, as we have both agreed that I shall work my passage.”

Petrella’s lips bent in her pale smile. “So we have. At what work are you able, nephew?”

“I might be of some small service to the cargo master,” Daav said. “I might also be put to use in the mechanics bay or at clerical.” He picked up his mug and had a sip of tea before slanting a quick, black glance at Er Thom and looking back to the Captain. “I can help my brother with his piloting.”

Er Thom felt a jolt. Daav tutor him at piloting? Now, there was turnabout! He felt a glare building, then remembered that Master ven’Ducci held his license hostage and subsided, eyes stinging. Happily, neither his brother nor his mother seemed to have noticed his near display.

“Oh?” Petrella said, with the ironic courtesy that characterized so much of her discourse with her son. “Last I had heard, you held a second class provisional.”

“I now hold a first class provisional,” Daav said, with a remarkable lack of preening. “Of course, one requires flight time.”

“Which one gains,” Er Thom murmured, suddenly enlightened, “by sitting second board to Scout pilots in trade for transport.”

Petrella frowned down at him. “Master ven’Ducci has spoken to me,” she began,

“Master ven’Ducci,” Daav interrupted, against best health, “is an idiot. Come, aunt! Who ties a second class to a dummy board?”

Both of her eyebrows rose and Er Thom held his breath, waiting for one of her blistering scolds to fall upon Daav’s heedless head.

“So, we agree again,” Petrella murmured, and there was something less of irony and somewhat more of courtesy in her voice. “You will be pleased to learn then, both of you, that Master ven’Ducci has been Instructed to use the Captain’s Shuttle for future piloting lessons, beginning tomorrow. I will see to it that your schedules coincide for that lesson, and then—we shall see.” She fixed Daav in her eye. “If I hear aught of mayhem from the master pilot, you will find yourself early indeed for first class, young Daav. Do I make myself sufficiently plain?”

Respectfully, he inclined his head, but Er Thom saw his eyes dancing in mischief. “Aunt, you do.”

“It is well,” she sighed. “Apply to the first mate for quarters and ship-garb—your brother will show you the way. Your work schedule will be on your screen tomorrow at first hour; pray do not be tardy.” Her gaze shifted. “My son…”

Er Thom raised his face to hers.

“Mother?”

Her lips bent once more in her slight smile, and she reached into her belt, withdrawing a flat rectangle. Er Thom’s hand leapt out, fingers questing, and his mother’s smile, strangely, deepened.

“Not a pilot,” she murmured, perhaps to herself. “What nonsense.” She put the license into his hand and inclined her head.

“Be worthy of it, child of Korval.”

HE SAT SECOND board to Daav, Master ven’Ducci a poised, silent presence in the jump-seat at their backs.

“Systems check,” Daav murmured, hands moving with precision across his board. Er Thom followed his brother’s lead, hands steady and careful, waking that portion of the piloting board which was the responsibility of the co-pilot. Screens lit, toggles glowed, maincomp beeped. The comm unit likewise beeped as information began to flow in from Dutiful Passage. Er Thom fielded the data, translated it, replied and received yet more data.

“The ship wishes us gone, brother,” he said, scarcely noting that he spoke. “We are cleared to leave immediately, if that is the pilot’s pleasure.”

“Nothing more,” Daav answered, and threw him a grin. “We have a course, I see, locked to navcomp,”

Er Thom looked—a two hour run?—then his brother’s voice drew him back to his immediate duty.

“Pray request Dutiful Passage to open the bay door.”

Er Thom flipped the toggle that opened the voice line. “Captain’s Shuttle ready for departure. Request bay door open.”

“Bay door open,” affirmed the cool voice of the pilot on duty at the starship’s main board. “Good lift, pilots.”

Screen One showed the bay door iris; Daav laughed, slapped the toggle, and the shuttle rolled free.

“MUCH IMPROVED,” Master ven’Ducci said, nearly three hours later, as they stood once again in the bay corridor. He bowed, very slightly. “I am encouraged, Pilot yos’Galan.”

Er Thom returned the bow. The lift had been a fine and bewildering thing. The simulations he had been flying were meticulously crafted, but live flight—live flight was different He was still a-tingle with energy, his thoughts as sharp as fabled clutch crystal, standing tall in an exhilaration that persisted despite the full knowledge of having several times bungled his board.

“You will both attend me here tomorrow at the same hour,” the master pilot said, and with another slight bow strode away down the hall. Er Thom stared after him, frowning.

“Trouble, darling?” Daav was fair glittering himself, black eyes wide in his narrow face.

Er Thom drew a deliberate breath, trying to quiet the exuberant pounding of his heart. “Say, rather, puzzlement. I botched things rather badly at the phase-change and yet he makes no mention of it. Had I made an error one-twelfth as grievous on the practice board, he would not have held shy of apprizing me, never fear it! Yet, today, with three ham-witted errors to my tally, he is ‘much encouraged’!”

“Perhaps he means to see if you repeat the errors tomorrow?”

“Repeat them tomorrow?” Er Thom stared. “I should never had made them today! I’ve been working phase equations in my head since Master Robir showed us the forms, when we were eight.”

“Learning curve,” Daav said, linking his arm in Er Thom’s and beginning to stroll down the hall in the master pilot’s wake. “I tremble to tell you how badly I’ve bungled my math at piloting, we were training on sling landings, you see, and I transposed my vectors.”

Er Thom laughed. “Tell me you came in upside down!”

“But of course I came in upside down,” Daav said amiably. “And hung upside down in the sling, like seven sorts of fool, while Master dea’Cort used my situation to lesson the rest of the class on the need to thoroughly check one’s equations.” He sighed and looked briefly mournful, then dropped Er Thom’s arm with a grin.

“Enough telling tales out of piloting class!” he said gaily. “It will no doubt astonish you to learn that I am ravenous. If we hurry, I can wheedle an apple out of the cook before reporting to the cargo master for duty, catch me.”

He was gone, running full speed down the hall.

Er Thom bit back a newly acquired curse and hurtled after.

IT WAS WELL into Fourth Shift and both of them should have been long abed. Instead, they were in the control room at the heart of the Passage. Er Thom was sitting first board. There was no second. Daav was leaving for school on the morrow. He sat, hands folded on his lap, in what would have been the jump-seat in a smaller ship—a passenger on this, their last flight together.

Er Thom’s hands moved across the board with swift surety, no wasted motion, no false moves. His face was intent and his shoulders just a bit rigid, but that was expectable, the sim he was flying being somewhat in advance of his skill level.

The screen flashed a familiar pattern—Daav’s own particular nemesis, as it happened—and he leaned forward, watching as Er Thom adroitly—one might say, casually—fed in the proper course for an avoid, and the simultaneous adjustment to ship’s pressure. Quietly, Daav sighed, leaned back in his chair—and jerked forward the next moment as the screen flared and Er Thom’s elegant choreography degenerated into a near random slap at the Jump button, which was entirely wrong and too late besides.

Using the exercise he had been taught by the scouts, Daav released the tension in his muscles, then put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“A good run, darling. Don’t repine.”

Er Thom looked up, blue eyes flashing a frustration of his own ineptitude that Daav understood all too well.

“It can’t quite be a good run, can it,” he snapped, “when the ship is destroyed around one?”

“Well—no,” Daav admitted. “On the other face, you flew further than I have yet to fly.”

“Truly?” Er Thom looked so startled that Daav laughed.

“Yes, truly, you lout! Remember me, the ten-thumbed junior brother?”

“All too well, thank you!” Er Thom replied with a gratifying flash of brotherly scorn. He sobered almost immediately. “You have changed, you know. Even in so short a time. I—do you find it at all… odd or, or… lonely, to, to—” He floundered.

“Do I find it disquieting to be away from all that was usual in my life, and made to stand singleton before the world, when I have no memory but of being half of the whole we two made between us?” Daav said in a serious and quite adult voice. Er Thom took a breath and met bleak black eyes straightly.

“Yes,” said Daav, “I do.”

“So do I,” Er Thom murmured, relieved, in an odd way, that at least this much had not changed—that he found his brother and himself at one on this matter of importance to them both. “One’s… mother… assures one that these feelings will pass. Do you think—”

The door to the control room opened and Petrella yos’Galan strode within.

“Of course I would find you both here,” she snapped, but Er Thom thought her face was—not entirely—displeased.

“Good shift, Aunt Petrella,” Daav said politely. “Er Thom has just been having a run at the general-flight masters sim.”

Petrella’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, indeed? And how did he fare, I wonder?”

“Poorly enough.” Er Thom spun his chair to face her. “My ship was destroyed two-point-eight minutes into the flight.”

Astonishingly, his mother grinned. “No, do you say so? Well I recall that dicey bit of action! Forty-four times, I lost my ship exactly there. The forty-fifth—well, say I survived another minute.”

“And I,” Daav said mournfully, “am doomed to forever lose my wings at two-point-three.”

“There?” Er Thom turned to stare at him. “But that was a mere nothing!"

“So you say!”

“No, but, Daav, all one need do—”

His brother raised a hand. “Yes, yes, I saw you. Perhaps my wretched fingers will have learned their lesson, now I’ve seen it can be done.” He looked up to Petrella, a wry grin on his face. “Fifty-two times.”

She smiled back. “I will hear that you’ve mastered the whole tape soon enough.”

Daav inclined his head. “Your certainty gives me courage. Aunt Petrella.”

“Now, that, neither of you lacks.” She paused, her sharp blue eyes flashing from Er Thom back to Daav. “We raise Venture within the hour, nephew, and tomorrow is the appointed day of your departure. Exert yourself to comfort one who was ever acknowledged as the timid twin: Are your arrangements in order and satisfactory to yourself? Better—would your mother my sister express her satisfaction with your arrangements?”

Daav raised his hand. “She and I discussed the scheme in detail before I had her aye. Scout Academy provided a list of pilots who might be receptive to allowing a first class provisional to gain flight time as their second—a list Mother studied with some interest before declaring that it would do.”

“So.” Petrella inclined her head, and glanced again to Er Thom.

“I wonder, my son, if you might not do the captain the honor of ferrying scout candidate yos’Phelium to the planet surface tomorrow. I would expect you to stay by him until he has satisfactorily made his contacts, attend to the few small errands you will find listed on your duty screen, and return the Captain’s Shuttle to the ship.”

Er Thom’s breath caught.

“I’m to pilot the Captain’s Shuttle alone? Mother—”

She tipped her head, and he thought he detected the beginning of a twinkle in her stern blue eyes.

“Surely that is a task well within the skill of a second class pilot?”

He smiled. “Yes, captain. It is.”

“Good, that is settled, then.” She turned. At the door, she looked over her shoulder at them. “The hour has perhaps escaped your notice, pilots. I mention—as elder kin and as a master pilot—that flight is much more enjoyable when one is awake at the board.” She inclined her head—“Sleep well”—and was gone.

DAAV WALKED UP to the duty counter, which looked for all the worlds like any counter in any hiring hall one cared to name. Had Er Thom not read the sign as he followed Daav into this place, he would have supposed himself in an office of the Pilot’s Guild, rather than the sector headquarters of the Liaden Scouts.

The man behind the counter glanced up from his book, and registered Daav with one quick Scout glance. The glance lingered a moment on Er Thom, as if the Scout found the appearance into his hall of a halfling in Trader clothes somewhat puzzling.

Daav laid his license on the counter. “One seeks Scout Rod Ern pel’Arot.”

“So?” The Scout appeared amused. “If one is so ill-advised as to seek Scout pel’Arot on Trilsday, then one must be prepared to seek him at the Spinning Wheel.”

Daav inclined his head. “I shall do so. May one inquire the direction of the Spinning Wheel?”

The scout’s amusement was almost palpable.

“Down on the blue median, handy to Terraport.” He moved his shoulders and picked his book up.

“I am informed,” Daav said, which his brother considered nothing more nor less than prevarication, pocketed his license and turned away, Er Thom trailing a respectful two paces behind.

Back on the walkway, Daav paused, face thoughtful. Er Thom looked up the street, down the street, but spied nothing remotely resembling either a blue median or a Terraport.

“Singularly unhelpful, that duty clerk,” he grumbled. His brother looked at him, surprise on his sharp-featured face.

“No, do you say so?” He, too, looked up and down the busy thoroughfare. “Now, I think he told us everything we needed to know, if only we apply—ah.” He moved forward, stepping off the curb, angling through traffic as if the rushing groundcars were mere figments. Er Thom gasped, then ran after, eyes on his brother’s narrow, space-leathered back.

He caught up on the far side of the street, where Daav had paused before a public display-map of Venture Port and near environs.

“Down on the blue median,” Daav murmured, “and handy to Terraport.” He frowned at the flat display, then reached out and pushed the power-up button.

The display flickered and rolled; colors flashed; flat shapes expanded into three dimensions. The bright pictographs of written Trade appeared last, putting names to this or that building or wayfare.

Daav laughed.

“Here we are,” he said, leaning forward and laying his hand wide over a block limned in electric blue. “The blue median, or I’ll eat my leathers.”

Er Thom leaned forward, squinting at the pictograph identifying a red-lined block just the north of Daav’s blue. “Terran Mercantile Association,” he read, and Daav laughed again.

“Terraport.” He turned his grin on Er Thom. “Now, what was so difficult about that?”

“He might have said ‘near the Terran Trade Hall,’” Er Thom pointed out, struggling to keep his lips straight and his face serious.

“Well,” said Daav, with a final, calculating stare at the map, “he might have done so. But then he would not have been a scout.” He moved his shoulders, and sent a diffident black glance to Er Thom. “You have errands to complete for Aunt Petrella, I know, and the blue median does look to be somewhat off your course, shall we part here?”

Er Thom stared. “I am charged foremost with seeing you safely to the end of your arrangements. You heard her say it.” He paused, as another, unwelcome thought intruded. He bit his lip. “Unless you do not wish me with you…"

Daav blinked. “What nonsense is this? of course I want you by me!” He leaned forward, catching Er Thom’s arm in a brother’s warm grip. “Why else did I come all the way from Liad to see you?”

“Ah.” Er Thom glanced aside, blinking, then looked back to his brother and smiled. “Why are we arguing with each other on a public street, then? Let us locate Scout pel’Arot and get you berthed.”

“Very well.” Daav glanced ’round, then pointed toward the east. “This way, I believe.”

THE SPINNING WHEEL was found to be at the end of a short side-way off the main thoroughfare, just half-a-block from the Terran Trade Hall. The Trade pictograph on the corner street sign read “Blueway cul-de-sac 12.” Below that, a board bearing the hand-painted Terran words “Avenue of Dreams” had been nailed to the post. Daav slipped down the slender way, Er Thom at his side.

A thick-shouldered Terran male sat on a stool beside the door to the casino, watching them with interest. He waved his hand as they approached the door.

“Hold it.”

As one, they checked, exchanging a glance. It was Daav who moved a step toward the doorman and inclined his head—proper, as it was Daav’s errand they were come upon.

“Yes?” he said.

The man frowned and jerked his thumb at the casino’s door. “This here’s a gambling hall. No kids allowed, by order of the portmaster.”

“I understand,” Daav said in his slow, careful Terran. “May one know the local definition of ‘kid’?’

“Huh.” The doorkeeper showed his teeth. It was perhaps, Er Thom thought, a smile. “A ‘kid’ is somebody who don’t hold a license or a guild-card.” The teeth showed again. “So, maybe you got a pilot’s license?”

“Indeed.” Daav went forward another step, reaching into his pocket. Er Thom moved, too, and put a hand on his brother’s arm, halting him just outside the range of the man’s Terran-long reach.

The doorkeeper saw the gesture, and laughed—a rusty sound no more cordial than his smile. “Your buddy thinks I’m a chicken-hawk.”

“But of course you are no such thing,” Daav answered calmly and held his license up for the man to see.

The hostile humor faded from the doorkeeper’s face. “First class pilot? How old are you?”

Daav lifted an eyebrow, his face set in haughty lines that reminded Er Thom forcibly of their mother. “Is my age significant? As you see, I hold a valid license. The portmaster’s word is met.”

“You got that,” the man admitted after a moment, and turned a rather more respectful gaze on Er Thom.

“OK, doll. You got a first class card, too?”

“I do not.” He showed his license, gripping it as firmly as he might with the tips of his fingers. The doorman sighed.

“Second class. How old are you?” He held up his big hand. “It don’t make no difference to whether you can go in—your friend’s got that pat. Call it curiosity. I don’t peg Liaden ages too good, but I’m damned if either one of you looks more’n twelve standards.”

Er Thom slipped his card back into its pocket, glanced at Daav and looked back to the doorman.

“I have fourteen Standard Years,” he said courteously.

“And I,” said Daav. “Good day to you.” He moved toward the door, Er Thom at his shoulder, and the doorman let them go.

Inside at last, they paused, blinking at the muddle of noise, lights and people. The spinning wheel was one large, high-ceilinged room; perhaps at some former time it had been a warehouse. The games of chance were strung out across the thickly carpeted floor, each surrounded by a tangle of players in modes of dress from dock worker coveralls to full eveningwear. People were also in motion, drifting between this table and that; still more were busy with the gambling machines lining the back wall.

In the very center of the room was a lighted golden wheel reaching nearly to the ceiling—the device that gave the casino its name. And the cluster of people around that table was equal, Er Thom thought, to the entire crew roster of the Dutiful Passage.

Er Thom’s heart sank. How were they to find one man—one man whom neither had seen before—in this crush? He glanced at his brother’s face and was curiously dismayed to find that even Daav looked daunted.

Er Thom bit his lip. “Perhaps there is a message board?” he suggested, almost certain that there was not. “Or a paging system?”

“Perhaps…” Daav murmured, almost inaudible over the din. “I wonder…”

“You kids looking for somebody?” The woman who asked it was Terran, tall and willowy; elegant in a red shimmersilk dress. Her hair was yellow—very nearly the same shade as Er Thom’s—her eyes a piercing dark brown.

“In fact, we are,” Daav said, making his bow as visitor to host. “We were sent here to find Rod Ern pel’Arot.”

For a moment, the woman hesitated, and Er Thom was about to despair. Abruptly, her face cleared, and she snapped her fingers.

“Is the week half-gone already?” This was apparently a rhetorical question, since she rushed on without giving either of them opportunity to answer. “The Scout, right? I didn’t see him come in, but it’s his day, and he hasn’t missed one since I’ve been hostess. He’ll be upstairs in the card rooms.” She cocked a cogent eye. “You know what he looks like?”

Daav smiled at her. “Like a Liaden?”

The woman laughed. “Sharp, are you? Yes, like a Liaden. A brown-haired Liaden, going gray, with three fingers missing off his left hand.”

Daav bowed. “I am grateful.”

“You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully and pointed across the crowded, noisy room. “You’ll find the lift over in the far corner, there. See where there’s a break in the line of bandits?”

“Yes,” said Daav, politely, Er Thom thought, if without perfect truth.

The woman nodded. “Have a good time—and hope the Scout’s winning today.” She swept off, the red dress swishing against the carpet.

“Well,” said Daav. Er Thom turned to meet his brother’s amused eyes. “Still game for the adventure, darling?”

“How could I beg off now?” Er Thom asked. “I’m all agog to meet this Scout of yours. Especially if he’s winning.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Daav said, moving slowly out onto the main floor. “It might prove more informative to discover him at a loss.”

Frowning, Er Thom followed.

It was rather like wading through a particularly sticky river, crossing that room. Lights flashed beneath the surface of a table where the dice struck, drawing the eye. Horns blared, uncomfortably loud, announcing a winner at a second table, and claiming the attention of all within earshot. The giant golden wheel in the center of the room clack-clack-clacked as it revolved, lights flickering along its edge, the wager marks a bright smear reminiscent of the attenuating light one might glimpse in the second screen in the instant before one’s ship entered Jump.

Er Thom paused, captivated by the effect. Gradually, the great wheel slowed, its attendant noises spiraling downward into subdued clack, clack, clacks, the wager marks discernable as individual symbols once more. Released, Er Thom’s eye fell upon the throng of bettors pressed up against the wheel’s table, and caught sight of a familiar badge on the sleeve of a jacket. He followed the sleeve up and discovered the face of Mechanic First Class Bor Gen pin’Ethil, thralled with anticipation, gray eyes pinned to the progress of the wheel, which clack… clack… clack…CLACKed to a halt, the lights around its edges flickering like a case lot of lightning bolts.

“Yellow Eleven!” someone called out—possibly the keeper of the machine, but Er Thom was watching Mechanic pin’Ethil, and saw his face change from bespelled to horrified.

“House wins!” called the keeper, and Mechanic pin’Ethil’s shoulders sagged within his crew jacket, then firmed. Almost stealthily, he reached into his pocket.

Er Thom went a step forward—and found his arm grabbed.

“There you are!” Daav snapped, bearing him along in his wake with embarrassing ease. “Here I thought you’d been taken by child-stealers between one step and the next, when all that had happened was that you allowed yourself to be caught like a rabbit in a light by that thing!”

“I didn’t—” Er Thom began a hot denial, then swallowed it. After all, it had been the lights that had pulled him to a halt. He had only seen Mechanic pin’Ethil after.

Daav pulled him onward, past the rest of the tables and the row of mechanicals with their attendant players, straight on to the lift-bank. He punched the summons, keeping a firm grip on Er Thom’s arm.

“You may,” Er Thom said, with what dignity he could muster. “Release me.”

“And have you wander off like a kitten after a butterfly and land in some sort of horrid scrape?” his brother inquired. “I think not.”

He was saved from having to answer this not altogether unjust assertion by the arrival of the lift. They stepped inside together, Daav punched the button for the next floor above and released Er Thom’s arm.

“Mind you, stay by me,” he snarled, which really was too much.

Er Thom spun to balance snap with snarl—and stopped.

Daav’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brows drawn tightly together—signs Er Thom recognized all too well. His anger melted and he touched his brother on the sleeve

“I hadn’t meant to frighten you, darling,” he said softly. “I swear I won’t stray from your right hand.”

Daav sighed and glanced away, then looked back and assayed a smile. “Very well, then.” The lift doors slid open, showing a sweetly lit room paneled and carpeted in the first style of elegance, the tables placed with an eye to discretion and art.

Most of the tables were empty. Daav squared his shoulders and left the lift, walking sturdily toward the table where three Terrans in local formal wear played piket with a grizzled man in scout leathers.

Three paces short of the table, at a position equal with the scout’s left shoulder, Daav stopped. Er Thom stood at his side, and recruited himself to wait.

They were fortunate that the round had nearly been done. When it was, the Scout excused himself to his companions, pushed back his chair and stared them both up and down.

“I expect you’re the Dragon cub,” he said at last, and none too courteously.

Out of the side of his eye, Er Thom saw Daav’s face go entirely bland, in an expression at once unfamiliar and chilling, before he bowed to the scout—junior to senior—the timing coolly precise.

“Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” he said, in the High Tongue’s mode of introduction. “Do I address Scout Pilot Rod Ern pel’Arot?”

The Scout inclined his head. “You do. I hear you want a ride back home. Why choose me?”

“One’s instructor had recommended you as a pilot from whom a novice might learn much,” Daav returned, his voice colder, perhaps, than even the High Tongue required.

The Scout cocked his head in what Er Thom read as mock interest. “Now, here’s a puzzle. Who teaches you piloting? Boy.”

Daav drew a deep breath. “I have the honor of receiving instruction from Master dea’Cort.”

Both grizzled brows lifted, and the scout inclined his head this time with something nearer respect. “Well. And dea’Cort sends you to me.” He flicked a glance at Er Thom’s face, then looked back to Daav.

“Baggage?”

“One’s brother, sent as Captain’s escort.”

“Wants to make certain you’re in good hands?” His glance this time was longer; and he spoke directly to Er Thom.

“Well, Trader? Is he in good hands?"

Er Thom frowned, then bowed briefly. “Sir. I hear that my Delm has seen your name on the list provided by Master Pilot dea’Cort, which she then approved. How, then, shall your care of my brother be other than excellent?”

The Scout stared, absolutely still, then gave a shout of laughter and slapped his two-fingered hand on the card table.

“Dragons dice early, I learn! Well said.” He looked back to Daav.

“These gentles and myself have some business to conclude. I will find you in an hour at the main eatery, belowstairs. They serve a tolerable nuncheon. Tell them you’re on the Scout’s ticket.”

Daav bowed, and Er Thom did, too. “One hour, in the main restaurant,” Daav murmured, but the Scout had already turned away, and was reaching for the cards.

THEY PAUSED ON the threshold of the casino’s restaurant and embraced without speaking. Daav raised a hand as they let the hug go, and ran his fingers, feather-light, down Er Thom’s cheek.

“Keep you safe, denubia,” he said, light-voiced, as if he did not stand on the edge of parting from his brother—his second self—twice in one scant lifetime, and grinned with more courage than mischief. “Beware of idiots seeking to chain you to a dummy board.”

Er Thom smiled, matching Daav’s courage, then exceeded it, by taking one step back and raising his hand. “Keep safe, Daav,” he murmured, and spun, perhaps too quickly, on his heel and strode off, alone, across the clattering busyness of the casino.

Daav watched him go—a slender, yellow-haired boy in trading clothes and well-made boots, the sleeve of his jacket bearing Korval’s venerable Tree-and-Dragon—until he lost him among the tall crowd of gamesters. He bit his lip, then, and blinked hard a time or two to clear his eyes, then went into the restaurant and asked for a table overlooking the floor.

SHOULDERS STRINGENTLY level, Er Thom went across the noisy room. He looked neither left nor right—and most especially he did not look back, being wise enough to know that his fragile seemliness would never withstand the sight of Daav standing at the entrance to the restaurant, watching him safely out the door.

Clack… clack… clack—as before, the sound drew the ear as insidiously as the flaring lights pulled the eye. Er Thom allowed himself a glance to the left and up, observing the Wheel as it clack… clack… clacked to the end of its course and was still, dark, but for a single wager-mark.

“Blue Seven!” called the croupier, and flourished his wand across the betting table, collecting the losing wagers in a single, precise sweep.

Er Thom discovered that he had stopped walking and frowned, remembering the formidable list of errands he had yet to accomplish in the high town for his parent. He put one foot forward, but his eye had been caught, precisely as before, by the Tree-and-Dragon sigil on the sleeve of Mechanic Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s jacket. As he watched, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, his shoulders rounded as if he stood under some unbearable weight.

Hesitating, Er Thom tried to reckon the time that had passed since he had first passed the Wheel and its cluster of avid players, and then shook himself, crossly. What business was it of his, how a crewman on leave chose to amuse himself?

Bor Gen pin’Ethil placed his coin on the table, his fingers hovering near, as if he might at any moment snatch it away.

Er Thom frowned again, liking that round-shouldered pose of misery less with every heartbeat. He had been several times over the last months assigned to the repair bays, and more than once to Mechanic pin’Ethil himself. A gentle, sweet-natured man, Bor Gen pin’Ethil, skilled in his work and an able teacher, besides. The man who stood with his neck bent at the base of the wheel was as unlike Mechanic pin’Ethil as—as Chi yos’Phelium was unlike her twin.

Er Thom hesitated, and in that moment the croupier extended his glowing wand to the Wheel. Thick scarlet sparks flared wetly and the wheel began to spin, picking up speed until the rimlights were but a foggy smear against the far indigo ceiling.

Alone among the crowd at the table, Bor Gen pin’Ethil did not gaze, entranced, upward into the seductive flare of light. He looked down, staring, or so Er Thom fancied, at the place where he had set his coin.

Er Thom bit his lip. Clearly, something was wrong, and the mechanic was a crewman. His crewman, if it came to that; he being the yos’Galan present.

Mechanic pin’Ethil is ill, he decided. In such case, his duty as crew-mate and as yos’Galan was plain. He moved a step toward the man who stood, staring bleakly down at the table.

Clack… clack… clack. The Wheel came to rest, rim-lights darkening.

The crowd ’round the table sighed as one, saving only Bor Gen pin’Ethil, staring, steadfast, at his coin.

“Yellow Eleven!” called the man with the wand. “The House wins!”

Bor Gen pin’Ethil picked his coin up and turned away from the table.

The thing was done so deftly that it took Er Thom, with his attention close upon the man, a moment to understand what he had seen. Alas, the croupier’s wand was more observant.

It began to glow a steady and unalarming amber. The croupier raised it high over his head at the same time directing a courteous. “Your pardon, sir. A word with you, please,” at Mechanic pin’Ethil’s back.

The mechanic did not heed the gentle summons, but moved steadily away from the table. Heart in mouth, Er Thom plunged forward, certain now that something was earnestly amiss. Even he, the rawest of halflings, knew that a wager once placed upon the table was sacrosanct. The House had won with Yellow Eleven. Mechanic pin’Ethil’s coin, covering Green Eight, was forfeit, by all the rules of honor and of play.

He needn’t have hurried. The crowd parted for two tall Terrans in formal wear. One reached down and gripped Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s arm, holding him still. The second went to the table, carrying another wand to the croupier.

“Malfunction?” she asked, taking the amber-lit wand with a rueful smile. “Ah, well. A spin on the House for everyone.”

The croupier bowed and bent, reaching into his tray for coins to put into the questing hands of the players. Er Thom turned away in time to see the other Terran urging Mechanic pin’Ethil forward.

The mechanic balked and twisted, trying to break the Terran’s grip. He failed, which could not have been unexpected, and sent a swift, panicked glance about him. Er Thom leapt forward, the man’s eye fell upon him, and his face closed, becoming the calm, courteous face of an elder crewman. Deliberately, he turned back to the man who held him and inclined his head.

“Hold!” Er Thom had reached the mechanic’s side and stared up into the face of the man who held him, and spoke in rapid Trade. “Release him. We will come with you willingly.”

“Certainly, I will,” said Mechanic pin’Ethil. He drew a deep breath, looked calmly into Er Thom’s face, and murmured quickly in Liaden, elder crew to younger. “Halfling, this is not yours. So now, you should not be in this place.”

“These persons will want Balance, will they not?” Er Thom snapped, as if he spoke to Daav, rather than an elder. “Who else from your crewmates is here to support you?”

“No one, gods be praised,” the other returned. He paused before inclining his head. “Your actions do you honor, but you must believe me—you want none of this.”

“What’s the hold-up?” The female Terran was with them, the glowing amber wand cradled in her arm. She glanced over to her mate. “Who’s the kid?”

“I am Er Thom yos’Galan,” he answered, in his slow, careful Terran. “This man,” he used his chin to point at Mechanic pin’Ethil, “is of my crew.”

“He is, is he?” She looked briefly amused, then shook her head and turned on her heel. “People are staring,” she said over her shoulder to the man who held Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm. “Bring them both.”

“Right.” The man walked after her. Perforce, Mechanic pin’Ethil walked with him, Er Thom keeping pace on his opposite side.

Calmly, the man never loosing his grip on Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm, they walked through the throng of gaily dressed people. Er Thom searched the faces in the crowd, but saw no one he recognized. Apparently of all the Passage’s off-shift crew, only Bor Gen pin’Ethil found the spinning wheel to his taste.

They passed a knot of Liadens in formal evening wear, the ladies’ jewel-toned dresses echoed in the gemstones worn by their escorts. A flicker of black moved at the edge of Er Thom’s eye and he turned his head to track it, thinking Daav, thinking—but there was no thin, fox-faced boy in scout leather staring at him from the depths of the crowd. Only heedless strangers, intent upon their own pleasure.

Back toward the bandits and the lift bank they went, then turned sharply to the left, went down a short hallway and entered an office, where at last Mechanic pin’Ethil was released by his escort.

Standing beside his crewman, Er Thom heard the door slide closed behind them, looked upon the stern faces of those who awaited them, and wished that he had taken Mechanic pin’Ethil’s hint and run.

The next moment, he was ashamed of himself. Run, and leave a crewmate alone to Balance with strangers? Far better to have a mate at one’s side in such a wise. Though it would, Er Thom allowed, possibly have been more comfort to Mechanic pin’Ethil, had the mate who stood at his side been Petrella yos’Galan herself.

Their female escort laid the amber wand on the desk before the sternest face of all, murmuring respectfully. “Here’s the evidence, Mr. Straudman.”

Mr. Straudman neither acknowledged her nor glanced down at the wand. Instead, he stared at Mechanic pin’Ethil, his eyes cold in his pale face.

“Stealing, Liaden?” he asked, his Trade flat and rapid. “We don’t like to have people stealing from us.”

“I understand,” said Mechanic pin’Ethil, in a calm, if slightly breathless voice. “The error is mine and I will endeavor to repair it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the man behind the desk said. “We know just what to do with thieves.” He smiled somewhat, and Er Thom felt his hands curl into fists. He took a breath and moved forward one step. The man who had escorted them here grabbed his arm.

“Stop.”

Er Thom inclined his head. “Very well.” He waited until he was released, then forced himself to meet the cold eyes of the man behind the desk.

“I am Er Thom yos’Galan Clan Korval. This man is a member of the crew of Dutiful Passage. The ship will pay whatever fine is considered just and then we will leave. It is not yours to punish this man, though it is… acknowledged… that Balance is owed.”

Beside him and one step behind, he thought he heard Mechanic pin’Ethil groan.

The man behind the desk blinked, once, He looked to the woman who had carried the wand.

“Dutiful Passage? And Clan Korval?”

“Yes, Mr. Straudman.”

Mr. Straudman was seen to smile again, a habit Er Thom wished he would give over, and leaned forward, almost companionably.

“And your name is yos’Galan, is it? Well, well.” He looked around at the others, some of whom looked less pleased than he—or so Er Thom thought.

“It seems to me we have a profit on the evening,” Mr. Straudman said, and pointed his cold eyes at Bor Gen pin’Ethil. “Maybe we ought to pay you a commission, grease-ape.”

Mechanic pin’Ethil sighed. “Come, sir. Would you dice with the Dragon?”

“Not in a month of bank days,” the Terran replied immediately. But this isn’t dice. This is a simple sale.”

He looked at Er Thom. “How much do you think captain yos’Galan will pay to get you back?”

Er Thom stared, thinking that it was just like his mother’s humor, and his foster mother’s, too—to declare herself well-pleased to be shut of an irritable, irritating boy, and wish the cold-eyed man joy of him.

And perhaps that was the key.

He moved his shoulders, and showed empty, apologetic hands to man behind the desk.

“One has a brother, sir. I fear you would find the price not to your liking.”

The cold-eyed man frowned, and leaned back suddenly in his chair, as if Er Thom had made a particularly clever move in counterchance. Er Thom held his breath, wondering what the man saw.

“So you’re worthless, are you?” Straudman said eventually. “Why don’t we just call Captain yos’Galan and make sure that’s the case before I do anything rash?”

“Because,” said a bland voice behind Er Thom, “you will but irritate the good Captain, friend Straudman, and bring her eye upon the Juntavas. A poor business all around.”

The man behind the desk frowned, his cold gaze leaping beyond Er Thom’s shoulder. “The kid says they won’t buy him back.”

“He tells you nothing but the truth.” Scout Pilot Rod Ern Arot strolled into Er Thom’s view, then went past him to lean against wall by Straudman’s desk. “His brother is the one you want, if you intend to profit by selling dragon-cubs to the Dragon. This one’s the extra.”

“So, now what?” said the man behind the desk, for all the worlds as if the Scout were a trusted advisor.

The Scout moved his shoulders against the wall. “While it is true you are unlikely to profit by selling this boy back to yos’Galan, it is also likely that the presumption of offering him will gain you her attention.” He snapped upright. “Let them go.”

Straudman frowned. “Both of them?”

“A first class mechanic is something the yos’Galan will miss,” the Scout said simply.

For a moment, there was silence, then Straudman nodded and waved a hand at the room in general.

“Get them out of here.”

“I’ll take them,” said Scout pel’Arot. “It’s time I was back at station.” He moved forward, beckoning to Er Thom with his two-fingered hand. “After me, cub, And try not to trip over your own feet.” Which, Er Thom thought, was really uncalled for. Though it was nothing compared to what Daav had to say to him, some few minutes later, at the head of the Avenue of Dreams.

PETRELLA YOS’GALAN sighed gently, and folded her hands atop her desk. In the chair facing her across the desk, Er Thom recruited himself to await her judgment, the echoes of Daav’s thundering scold still ringing in his ears.

In the right hands, silence and stillness were potent tools, as he well knew, his foster mother being past master of both. Whether his true-mother shared that mastery he did not know—though he expected that he was about to learn.

His mother closed her eyes, sighed once more, and opened them.

“Since your cha’leket has exercised duty of kin and spoken to you frankly on the subject of endangering yos’Galan’s heir by choosing to confront the Juntavas planetary administrator in his very office, we needn’t discuss that further.” She paused before inclining her head courteously.

“I will say, first, that your instincts do you honor. Your reported assessment of Mechanic pin’Ethil’s state—that he was unwell—has been verified by the ship’s healer. I am assured that the compulsion to continue play once one has begun, to the cost even of one’s melant’i, may easily be lifted by the Master healers at Solcintra Guildhall. Accordingly, Mechanic pin’Ethil will be sent home for Healing.” She glanced down at her folded hands, then back to his face.

“I will, of course, write to his Delm. It would honor me, if the crewmate who offered him care in his disability would assist me in composing this letter.”

Er Thom blinked. He? Almost, he thought he heard Daav, laughing inside his head: Yes you, idiot, who else.

Hastily, he inclined his head. “I would be honored to assist, ma’am.”

“Good.” Another pause, another long moment’s study of her folded hands.

“All honor to you, also, that you chose to lend Mechanic pin’Ethil your support.” She raised one hand, though Er Thom had said nothing. “I know that you have said that there was no choice open to you in this; that your duty was plain, as the mechanic’s crewmate and as the sole representative of Korval present. However, it must be recalled that you are but a halfling, and it was perhaps not… quite… wise of you to go unarmed into an unknown and possibly dangerous situation.” She smiled, faintly. “I had said we would not repeat the course flown by your cha’leket. Forgive me, that there must be some overlap in approach.”

Er Thom inclined his head. “Daav was plain with me, ma’am; I’m an idiot child, unfit to be left alone.”

Improbably, her smile deepened. “Ah. Well, perhaps our approaches do not overlap so very much, then. I would say to you that those of the Juntavas are at best chancy and at worst deadly. Korval has an… arrangement… with the Juntavas, dating back many years—the appropriate citations from the Diaries will be on your screen at the beginning of your next on-shift. Please read them and be prepared to discuss them with me over Prime meal.” She did not wait for his seated bow of obedience, but swept on.

“For the purpose of this conversation, let us say that the agreement between Korval and the Juntavas is one of mutual avoidance. The Juntavas does not touch Korval ships. Korval does not interfere with Juntavas business. Matters have stood this way, as I have said, for many years.” She frowned over his head, as if she saw something on the opposite wall of her office that displeased her, sighed, and continued.

“The meat of the matter is that, despite this long-standing agreement, despite the fact that the Scouts keep watch—the Juntavas is not a safe host. That the gentleman you… spoke to… would have killed you out of hand is, perhaps, unlikely. For Mechanic pin’Ethil…” She moved her shoulders. “Mechanic pin’Ethil is not of Korval, though he serves on a Korval ship. The Juntavas is clever enough to use that distinction to advantage.”

His horror must have shown on his face, for his mother gave him another of her faint smiles before asking. “Tell me, my son, what would you have done if any of the armed persons in that office had decided to kill Mechanic pin’Ethil?”

Er Thom stared. Visions fluttered through his head, too rapid to scan, and finally he lifted his hands in exasperation. “I—something. I am a pilot of Korval. I would have done—something.”

A small pause.

“Ah, yes,” his mother said softly. “There is a long history of doing… something… among the pilots of Korval.” She smiled at him and in that instant looked the very image of her twin. “I believe we had best accelerate your defense instruction, pilot.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He inclined his head.

“Hah.” She considered him out of abruptly serious blue eyes, once again unmistakably his true-mother. “I would offer—as elder kin, you know—that we have all of us bid farewell to the comforts and the companions of childhood in order to learn our life-trades and begin to shape adult melant’i. I would say that—here is one who recalls the day she watched her sister walk into Scout Academy without her, and who later that same day was shown her quarters onboard the old Dutiful Passage. I assure you that the ache in one’s heart does ease, with time, and with the necessities of daily duty.” She raised her hand stilling his start of denial.

“I do not say that you will cease to love, my child. I merely say—you will become an adult.” She smiled once more, sweet as Daav. “With luck.”

Er Thom grinned, then inclined his head. “I thank you, for the instruction of elder kin.”

“So.” She glanced aside at the clock on her desk. “It is time and past time for you to be abed. Come to me at Prime, and mind you have those entries read.”

“Yes, mother.” He stood, made his bow and moved toward the door.

He was nearly to the door when he heard her speak his name.

“Ma’am?” He turned to find her standing behind her desk, slowly, she bowed the bow of honored esteem—

“Sleep you well, pilot of Korval.”